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BLUESTONE 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

KEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE: 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



BLUESTONE 

LYRICS 



BY 
MARGUERITE WILKINSON 



^tm fork 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1920 

AU rights reserved 






COPTBIQHT, 1920 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 



Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1920. 



©C1A5713&6 



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TO J. G. W. 

COMEADE BESIDE ALL SWIFT RIVERS 
THESE AND ALL MY SONGS 



Thanks are due to the editors of Contemr 
porary Verse, Scribner^s Magazine, the North 
American Review, The Nation, The Touch-' 
stone, The Independent, The Smart Set, 
Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Ainslee^s 
Magazine, Everybody's Magazine, McCalVs 
Magazine, The Farm Journal, The Boston 
Evening Transcript, The Forum, and The 
New York Times for permission to reprint 
here poems published for the first tim^ in 
these periodicals. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction xiii 

Bluestone 1 

Songs from Beside Swift Rivers 

A Chant out of Doors 9 

I Came to be Alone 11 

The Air 13 

Ghosts 14 

Song of Two Wanderers 15 

Before Dawn in the Woods 17 

White Magic 18 

By a Salmon River 19 

This Shall be the Bond 20 

An Oath in April 23 

Sunset 24 

Near the Rivers 25 

Silver Waters 26 

''The Really Truly Twirly Whirly Eel" 27 

Barefoot 29 

Berries 32 

A Thought when Noon is Hot 34 

Green Valleys 35 

Songs of Poverty 

Debt 41 

To-day 42 

[ix] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Tired 43 

Pawnbroker : 44 

Passing a Friend 45 

Work 46 

Poverty 47 

Preferences 

People 51 

Weather 55 

Music 56 

Food 57 

Colors 58 

Trees 59 

Love Songs 

An Incantation 63 

A Walk in Springtime 64 

A Chant of Youth 65 

In Passing 67 

Let There Be Light 68 

Morning and Evening 69 

A Song for my Mate 71 

At the Last 72 

Songs of an Empty House 

Vista 77 

Food and Clothing 79 

Childless 80 

For the Child that never Was 82 

The End 83 

[xl 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Songs of Laughter and Tears 

A Long Song of Momus 87 

An Elegy 91 

Garments 94 

In a Certain Restaurant 96 

Garden Song 98 

A Song for Mother's Day 100 

Birth 101 

To my Country 102 

Songs of Sun and Shadow 

1 103 

II 104 

III 105 

Time-Shadows 106 

Whims for Poets 

The Winds Ill 

To Seanchan 112 

Duty 113 

If They Will not Hear Me 114 

Songs I Sang Long Ago 115 

California Poems 

The Mountain Lilac of California 119 

A Night on the Beach 121 

These for Me 122 

The Fog Comes in at Night 123 

To the Summer Sun 124 

The Pageant 126 

Ixi] 



INTRODUCTION 

The centuries, speeding us through the 
cycles of human experience, bring us back, 
from time to time, to an interest in old things 
that seem new. The making of lyrics with 
musical melodies that belong to the words 
because they have grown with them in the 
mind of the poet is no new thing. But in 
our times and in our language it has been 
little discussed. Nevertheless, I believe that 
such melodies exist for others, even to-day, 
as they do for me. In the hope of learning 
more about them and about their importance 
as a part of poetic craftsmanship I am writ- 
ing this introduction. If I must offer an- 
other excuse for my temerity in setting down 
melodies of my own here, let me mention my 
lifelong interest in rhythm. 

When I was still a child I enjoyed melody, 
and a sweet-flowing sequence of syllables in 
verse, or a bit of imaginative phrasing that 
I could understand. But rhythm gave a 
deeper delight. I shall never forget my pleas- 

[xiiij 



INTRODUCTION 

ure in the folksongs that my father and 
mother sang to their children; nor the dance 
music that my mother played for us in the 
evening after dinner, improvising gracefully 
while she watched us spinning around the big 
living room on tiptoe. I liked a band, too, 
partly because the beat of the drum was ac- 
companied by a melody that ran with it, as 
it seemed to me then, but also ran away from 
it. But not all rhythms gave me pleasure. 
I was tormented by the strict regularity of 
the rhythm of ^^The Lay of The Last Min- 
streP' when I heard it for the first time. 

I was not a musical child. I was the least 
musical member of a large and very musical 
family. I rebelled against piano lessons and 
suffered when taken to concerts. I am not 
a musical person to-day, judged by the usual 
standards. For this reason it may seem 
strange that when I was still a little girl I 
began to make lyrics with tunes, to sing them 
into existence with queer little melodies that 
grew as the words grew. I would begin to 
make a poem, and when it was finished I 
would find a tune with it, come, like one of 
the Good People, from nobody knows where. 

[xiv] 



INTRODUCTION 

After those days when poetry was a shy 
happiness, came school days and college days 
when an intellectual interest in scansion came 
near to making me love it for its own sake. 
I made innumerable experiments. I treated 
the sonnet and other verse forms with crude 
unkindness. I attempted to translate the 
beloved hexameters of Homer into English 
hexameters. When I failed I trembled on 
the verge of the perilous thought that it was 
not altogether my own fault. The English 
language was quite unhke the Greek in qual- 
ity. At about the time when I made this 
discovery I began to lose faith in scansion 
although I was glad that I had studied and 
practised it. I came to believe that ^^ correct 
thought in flawless meter/' taken as an ideal, 
would never produce poetry. It was quite 
as likely to produce Brussels carpet. And I 
realized that the Oriental rug, with its occa- 
sional abrash, is a far truer, stronger, and 
more beautiful expression of thought and 
feeUng than the impeccable, machine-made 
carpet can possibly be. But through all my 
experiments and in spite of changing faiths 
my method of chanting or singing a lyric 

[XV 1 



INTRODUCTION 

into life persisted. And recently I have be- 
gun to give it much thought as a part of 
craftsmanship. 

What happens is simply this: while I am 
making a Ijoic, after the mood becomes clear, 
after the idea and image emerge from con- 
sciousness, I sing it, and sometimes slowly, 
sometimes quite rapidly, the words take 
their places in lines that carry a tune, also. 
I am not giving conscious attention to the 
tune. Nor am I making an intellectual 
effort to combine words and music and get 
a certain effect. I am not thinking about the 
music. I am making a single-hearted and 
strong endeavor to say or sing what is felt 
and thought. Sometimes a lyric and the 
melody that belongs with it grow in my mind 
for a long time before they become vocal and 
can be pet down on paper. '^Bluestone" was 
in my mind for nearly a year before it was 
finished with the melody given here. Some- 
times it all happens very quickly. But it is 
always quite impossible to watch the process 
with detached interest while it is going on. 
It is only by looking back on it afterward, 
and by studying the tunes in relation to the 

[xvij 



INTRODUCTION 

words, that I make the discoveries which in- 
terest me and lead me to ask for a share in 
the knowledge of others who may be working 
in similar ways. 

First of all let me say that, in my opinion 
and for me, the musical tunes that I make 
are of one sort with the rhythmical tunes of 
the words as spoken, and with the meaning 
that the words are intended to convey. My 
melodies even seem to have an organic unity 
with the phraseology and imagery of the 
lines. That this will not necessarily be true 
for others who may read or sing my lyrics 
I am ready to admit. But for me it is true. 

If I take for example ^'A Thought When 
Noon Is Hot," for me both tune and words 
are exuberant, sharing the quick joy that 
comes to campers when, under the sharp 
noonday sun, after a thirsty morning on the 
road or on the river, they find a chilly spring 
where water tastes sweeter than any that 
can be drawn from a faucet. 



[xvii J 



INTRODUCTION 






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A THOUGHT WHEN NOON IS HOT 

Joy will cool my face, 

Joy will wash my hands, 

Into very joy I shall plunge my arms 

And sing; 
Joy will sweeten my mouth, 
Joy will gladden my throat. 
And freshen my very Hfe, when I reach 

The spring. 

Similarly it seems to me that in '^The 
Winds" the mood of the tune varies from 
the dehcate joy of the first stanza to the 
sorrow of the second, then to the pensive 
quality of the first two lines of the third 

[xviiij 



INTRODUCTION 



stanza, and the resolution of the last two 
lines, just as words and meaning vary. If I 
were to theorize I should say, also, that I 
think the fact that all of these feelings are 
symbolized and generalized, not made actual 
and concrete, is what makes it possible to 
touch them all lightly with such a tune and 
to pass quickly from one to another. 



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THE WINDS 

The wind blew north, the wind blew south, 
The wind blew cherries into my mouth, 
The wind blew a wild rose into my hair 
And a pin of gold to hold it there. 

The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 
The wind blew a dagger against my breast. 
And thorny boughs it blew in my way. 
And I was wounded, day after day. 

Now all the life of the world, I find, 
Is a whim of the winds, be it cruel or kind. 
Oh, meet them singing, as they rush forth, 
Blowing east and west, or south and north! 

[XX] 



INTRODUCTION 

I wanted ^'Bluestone'^ to be dignified and 
resonant, but not too sombre. For me the 
tune echoes and answers that desire. 



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BLUESTONE 

Under the bluestone they quarried and cut, 
Under a great block facing blue sky, 
Not too far from the home of their pride, 
Six feet deep my fathers lie. 

I have discovered that syllables are never 
broken in the singing of my lyrics. No syl- 
lable is ever combined with several notes, 
after the manner of composers. There is al- 
ways a single syllable for a single note, a 
single note for a single syllable. If the num- 

[xxi] 



INTRODUCTION 

ber of syllables in corresponding lines of the 
several stanzas of a lyric is not always the 
same, the number of notes in the tune varies. 
The value of the note seems to depend on 
the quality of the syllable, on its relation to 
the rest of the line, and on accent. 

My melodies observe some law of quantity, 
or enforce it; I am not sure which. A plump, 
well-rounded syllable is likely to go with an 
ample, long-sounding note. Quick, slight 
syllables hurry and scurry along with notes of 
smalltime-value. The musical accent and 
the stress of speech fall together. Something 
of what I mean by this is suggested by the 
first lines of '^The Pageant" and the tune 
that goes with them. The two long-sounding 
syllables, '^long" and '^road,'' in the first 
fine, are mated with musical notes relatively 
long. The word '^highway," on the other 
hand, which ends the balancing phrase in the 
same line, is more quickly sung. 



[xxii] 



INTRODUCTION 



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THE PAGEANT 

Forever is a long road; Forever is a highway 
"Whereon go marching through arching nights 
and days 

[ xxiii ] 



INTRODUCTION 

Proud Dreams with golden crowns fair upon 

their foreheads, 
Shining Dreams with haloes and bright 

Dreams with bays, 
And all along the flowered edge the little 

Dreams go dancing, 
Singing gay canticles of praise. 

Sometimes, however, a sound that could be 
sung quickly is held and lengthened slightly 
because it is pleasant to dwell on it. This is 
true in ^'An Incantation." The ''0'' with 
which it begins could have been hurried, but 
not without loss in sonority. In this chant, 
and in all the others, the rests have nearly 
as much enotional value as the notes and 
words, I think. They provide time for a 
reahzation of the pictorial quality of the 
lines. As I visualized ^^An Incantation" it 
was chanted on a windy hillside in April 
with the sun coming and going through cloud- 
rack and rain. But it is attuned to the severe 
moods rather than to the daffodil whimsies 
of April. 



[xxiv] 



INTRODUCTION 



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AN INCANTATION 



O strong sun of heaven, harm not my love! 
Sear him not with your flame, blind him not 

with your beauty, 
Shine for his pleasure. 

For the sake of comparison I am setting 
down another chant, called ^'A Chant Out 
Of Doors. '^ It was remembered rather than 
imagined, a ^ ' recollection in tranquilhty . ' ' It 
seems to me to be somewhat more complex 
than ^'An Incantation^' because it carries 
two interwoven moods, the mood of worship, 
alternating with the mood of wonder that 
leads to worship. 

Ixxvl 



INTRODUCTION 



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A CHANT OUT OF DOORS 

God of grave nights, 
God of brave mornings, 
God of silent noon, 
Hear my salutation! 

For where the^apids rage white and scornful 
I have passed safely, filled with wonder; 
Where the sweet pools dream under willows 
I have been swimming, filled with life. 

[xxvi] 



INTRODUCTION 

Lyrics written in two stanzas usually have 
a melody that varies from line to line and 
from beginning to end. They seldom repeat 
the melody of the first stanza in the second as 
hymns do. The melody changes as the poem 
changes. This is true in particular, of '' To- 
day" in ^^Songs of Poverty/^ of ^^Weather" 
in ^Preferences" and of the third song in 
the ^^Sun and Shadow" series, which I am 
offering here. 



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INTRODUCTION 




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MORNING AND EVENING 

Sunlight and glory! 

Who is singing of glory f 

[ XXX ] 



INTRODUCTION 

I am singing with heart as gay as the honey- 
suckle vine, 

I am singing for one whose words are good 
as ruddy apples — 

In the morning, in the evening, he is mine! 

I am singing for one whose voice has music 
of moving waters; 

Delicate ripple and terrible wave and thrill- 
ing current and tide 

All have tones that he uses well in talk and 
song and laughter. 

I am singing for love of a voice that was the 
joy of his bride. 

Poems in free verse seem to be quite as 
likely to have tunes made with them as poems 
in rhymed stanzas. But lyrics whose lines 
approximate the standard iambic pentam- 
eter, either rhymed or blank, seldom grow 
with tunes of their own. ^^ Berries,''' ^'Peo- 
ple,'' ^^Music,'' ^^Birth'' and others of their 
kind have no tunes. I should like to know 
what this means. Does the familiarity of 
the iambic pentameter line, or its naturalness 
in our language, make the singing of it super- 

[xxxi ] 



INTRODUCTION 

fluous? Is the use of a melody, then, a means 
of learning how to combine many kinds of 
metrical feet in many ways to express a 
special emotion, without being mechanical 
about it? Or is it simply the old method 
of the folksong, with this difference, that I 
probably give much more attention to phrase- 
ology, imagery and symbolism and less atten- 
tion to the music than the folk gave who 
made our folksongs? 

In support of this latter idea is the fact 
that many of my favorite themes might be 
called themes of the folk. I write most hap- 
pily of things that even simple people know 
well, of homes and camps, of physical and 
mental hardship and prowess, of adventures 
in the open, of birth and growth and struggle 
and of our vision of Forever. ^'Bluestone" 
has been called a ^' class-conscious" poem. 
It is never that for me. It is simply folk- 
conscious. And I must admit that when I 
use these themes of the folk I most frequently 
sing my lyrics. 

In conclusion let me say that I know very 
well that I am not a musician, a composer. 
I know very little about music. And I am 

[xxxii] 



INTRODUCTION 

most grateful to my mother and to Miss 
Anita Darling for their assistance in taking 
down in musical notation the melodies given 
here. 



Ixxxiiil 



BLUESTONE 



BLUESTONE 

Under the bluestone they quarried and 

cut, 
Under a great block facing blue sky, 
Not too far from the home of their pride, 
Six feet deep my fathers lie. 
Their great arms are folded on each broad 

breast, 
Their strong voices quiet, for their Hps are 

dust; 
And none, forever, shall break their rest — 
But theirs are the words and the deeds that I 

trust. 
They rise from the dead, though their bodies 

are shut 
Under the hlaestone they quarried and cut. 

They were a good race; theirs was the power 
Of good height and girth, firm-knit and 

clean; 
Great skulls they had, and broad, square 

brows, 

[1] 



BLUESTONE 

Eyes like the bluestone with arched nose 

between; 
Their minds were rugged as their hands were 

strong; 
They loved good food and they loved good 

song; 
They built big homes and they planted much 

grain, 
Laughing deep laughter in sun and rain; 
Many sons and daughters they got in their 

pride; 
Heartily they lived and hardly they died — 
They died, hut they live, for they speak to me 
Suddenly, sharply, mysteriously. 

When I was a child, they set me my 
task — 
''Bid your mind get all that your mind can 
ask!^' 
When I was a girl, the word of my sires 
Was, ''Bid your heart give all that your 

heart desires ! 
For a woman, one lover, ^' they said, "one 

mate! 
Choose you one of our kind, and let your 
love be great; 

[2] 



BLUESTONE 

Then build walls about your life, like the 

bluestone strong, 
For the daughters of our race love deeply 

and long!" 

When I was a woman, the wife of a man, 
Like hammers in quarries their voices rang 

clear, 
''We are the source where your being 

began — 
You are a mother of to-morrow, my 

dear. 
You shall thrust our strength and our 

beauty and pride 
Out into life again, ere you have died; 
You shall be our hands to reach endless 

years away . . . 
You shall be our voice speaking out of 

to-day." 
These things they said, though their bodies 

were shut 
Under the bluestone they quarried and cut 

Sometimes when morning finds me slow to 

rise. 
Wistful in the sun, dull before the skies, 
[31 



BLUESTONE 

I feel on my shoulder a pressure like Fate, 
The touch of a race that stood tall and 

straight, 
That stood straight till age had broken body 

and will 
That nothing else could break. . . I am one 

of them still. . . 
^^ The bluestone is broken, but never bent," 

they said. 
These are still the words of my ever-living 

dead. 

Sometimes at noon, when I would do no more, 
When I am weary, when all my joy is spent. 
When I am weak before life, ready to im- 
plore. 
Though I should command — then, with wise 
intent, 
"Time, not trouble, crumbles bluestone," 

they say, 
''Be like the bluestone for another day." 

Sometimes in the evening, when my work is 

done. 
When my man comes home to me with the 

setting sun, 

[41 



BLUESTONE 

I think that my fathers are met with us too, 
That they rest in our chairs, that they feast 
as we do. 
For ^^The bluestone is blessed, ^^ they said, 

''when Fate 
Lets it pave a quiet walk to the dear home 
gate.'' 

But oftenest, at night, when I can not sleep, 
When thoughts that rest by day wake their 

watch to keep. 
When my hands are strangely still, when 

winds drone endlessly. 
My ever-hving dead come back to speak to me. 
I do not see them white-clad in garments of 

the tomb. 
I am not afraid when they fill my quiet room. 
They murmur in my pulse; they throng my 

wondering brain; 
They give me their wisdom, their dreams, 

though they remain 
With their great arms folded, their fine eyes 

shut. 
Under the bluestone they quarried and cut. 
Though under a great block facing blue sky, 
Six feet deep my fathers lie. 

[5] 



SONGS FROM BESIDE SWIFT 
RIVERS 



A CHANT OUT OF DOORS 

God of grave nights, 
God of brave mornings, 
God of silent noon, 
Hear my salutation! 

For where the rapids rage white and 
scornful, 

I have passed safely, filled with wonder; 

Where the sweet pools dream under wil- 
lows, 

I have been swimming, filled with life. 

God of round hills, 
God of green valleys, 
God of clear springs, 
Hear my salutation! 

For where the moose feeds, I have eaten 

berries, 
Where the moose drinks, I have drunk 

deep. 



[91 



BLUESTONE 

When the storms crashed through broken 

heavens — 
And under clear skies — I have known joy. 

God of great trees, 
God of wild grasses, 
God of little flowers. 
Hear my salutation! 

For where the deer crops and the beaver 

plunges, 
Near the river I have pitched my tent; 
Where the pines cast aromatic needles 
On a still floor, I have known peace. 

God of grave nights, 
God of brave mornings, 
God of silent noon, 
Hear my salutation! 



[10] 



I CAME TO BE ALONE 

I went out from the world of futile talking 

and trying, 
Out from the world of the quarrels of men to 

the nude and silent sky; 
And into the woods I came, to the easily 

flowing river, 
Here of my own nude soul to ask, "What 

manner of man am I?'' 

But I have strangely forgotten all that I 

dreamed and wanted. 
All that I thought and hoped and dared 

only a month ago; 
Even the friends of my heart I have lost in 

the sUpping shadows. 
And the slim, young self I see in the stream 

is the only self I know. 

I shall remember again, perhaps, when the 

blessed summer passes, 
But now, oh, nothing but storm or peace 

under a bending sky, 
I 111 



BLUESTONE 

Racket of winds at night that slap and tug 

at the flapping canvas, 
And the rock of a good canoe by day on the 

rapids racing by. 

I shall remember again, perhaps, but now I 

have clean forgotten, 
For I have been glad of hunger and thirst, 

and the fear of death I have known; 
Jagged rocks in the rip I have seen and the 

quiet waters beyond them. 
And the clean, green banks of perfect rest, 

since I came to be alone! 



112] 



THE AIR 

The air shone with light and rang with 

music 
And carried memories of flowers to me, 
Where I lay, resting a weary head and 

shoulders 
Hard against the sod, under a tree. 

The air moved gently, joyfully, over, under, 
With dehcate singing soothing my unrest. 
While I lay there, too weary even to mur- 
mur, 
Too spent to answer life, even with a jest. 

The air was lovely. There I slept and 

wakened, 
And still there was the miracle of the air; 
Rested, I flung my arms apart in worship 
To think of this glory moving everywhere. 



[131 



GHOSTS 

You say you saw a ghost, in the house, at 
night, 

Standing stiff and chilly in evanescent sil- 
ver, 

In your room, near the bed where your 
grandfather died. 

But I saw ghosts, hundreds of them, danc- 
ing, 

Out of doors, by day, in a dazzle of sunlight. 

Climbing through the air of a clearing near 
the river, 

Flying dizzily there in a brief puff of the 
breeze. 

Yes, hundreds of ghosts, where a little while 
ago 

Died hundreds of the purple blooms of the 
thistle. 



[141 



SONG OF TWO WANDERERS 

Dear, when I went with you 
To where the town ends, 

Simple things that Christ loved, 
They were our friends. 

Tree-shade and grass-blade 

And meadows in flower. 
Sun-sparkle, dew-gUsten, 

Star-glow and shower, 
Cool-flowing song at night 

Where the river bends 
And the shingle croons a tune — 

These were our friends! 

Under us the brown earth, 

Ancient and strong. 
The best bed for wanderers 

All the night long! 
Over us the blue sky, 

Ancient and dear. 
The best roof to shelter all 

Glad wanderers here! 

[151 



j 
i 

BLUESTONE i 

And racing between them there « 

Falls and ascends i 

The chantey of the clean winds — 

These were our friends! j 

By day on the broad road j 

Or on the narrow trail, 

Angel wings shadowed us, ^ 

Glimmering pale \ 

Through the red heat of noon; ; 

In the twiHght of dawn i 

Fairies broke fast with us, I 

Prophets led us on! i 

Heroes were kind to us i 

Day after happy day; 

Many white Madonnas j 

We met on our way — \ 

Farmer and longshoreman, ' 

Fisherman and wife, j 

Children and laborers i 

Brave enough for life — 

Simple folk that Christ loved, \ 

They were our friends — | 

Dear, we must go again • 
To where the town ends! 

[16] ; 

j 

'I 



BEFORE DAWN IN THE WOODS 

Upon our eyelids, dear, the dew will lie, 
And on the roughened meshes of our hair, 

While little feet make bold to scurry by 
And half-notes shrilly cut the quickened 
air. 

Our clean, hard bodies on the clean, hard 
ground, 
Will vaguely feel that they are full of 
power, 
And they will stir and wake and look 
around. 
Loving the early, chill, half-lighted hour. 

Loving the voices in the shadowed trees. 
Loving the feet that move the blossoming 
grass, — 
Oh, always we have known such things as 
these, 
And knowing, can we love and let them 
pass? 



[171 



WHITE MAGIC 

Who bids us be wary ■ 
Of briar and snake 
Is led by a fairy; 

Who finds dry wood 

For the fires we make — 
His magic is good; 

Who gathers wild berries 

High on far hills, 
Or gets sand-cherries, 

Who catches the trout 

Where the deep hole fills, 
Is a mage no doubt. 

Who knows the cool hollow 
Where springs drip cold, 
Is a wizard to follow. 

Let the magic begin 

With the dawn's red-gold- 
But the cook is the Jinn! 

[181 



BY A SALMON RIVER 

From the bank you can see nothing but 

swift water 
Mottled with shadows and circUng golden 

lights. 

But climb into a tree and then look down — 
You will see them etched in grey against the 

bottom, 
Grand, tapering, silver salmon in delicate 

poise, 
Headed up-stream to taste the sweetest 

springs. 

If you would see deep you must climb up high 
And look clear through. 



[19] 



THIS SHALL BE THE BOND 

This shall be the bond between us, mate of 

my heart — 
Stir of willow branches where the sapUngs 

start 
Out of sedgy meadows by the downhill 

stream 
Where the air lies soft in dream. 

This shall be the bond between us — winding 

in the sun, 
In and out from yesterday, till all our days 

are done — 
The free, onward flowing of the full-hearted 

river 
Past reeds that rustle and quiver. 

Ache of throbbing heavens torn by burst- 
ing storm. 
Tang of bitter wood-smoke where our food 

waits warm, 
And the dear, broken music of the hard- 
driven rain. 
And the cold, and thirst, and pain — 
[20] 



THIS SHALL BE THE BOND 

These shall be a bond between us unto the 

end, 
The unknown venture where the singing 

rapids bend 
To the clean, white danger of the foaming rip 
Where our boat must dance and dip. 

Ringing of the pebbles where the riffles are 

shallow. 
Pleasant quip of quail in the fields long 

fallow. 
And the dawn's quaint chorus out of old 

delight. 
And the sweet-scented peace of night; 

Blowing of the merry buds, rosy, blue and 
yellow. 

Flushing of the wild fruits until they are 
mellow. 

Strawberries, raspberries, and saucy winter- 
green, 
All rich things heard and seen : 

All will be a bond between us, till we are 

too old 
For the high-hearted going, till the tales we 

have told 

[21] 



BLUESTONE 

Of the long rivers winding from the hills to 
the sea 
Are but mirth and a memory. 

For the love of all wild things is warm upon 
our lips, 

And the old earth is answered in our meet- 
ing finger-tips: 

We are growing full-hearted as the rivers 
grow great — 
This shall be the bond, my mate! 



1221 



AN OATH IN APRIL 

I swear by cool white blood-root blossom, 
By the new grass, by the new day, 
By the fine, crisp Hghts on ice-fed waters 
Where trout and water-beetles play, 
I swear by the scent of the wet brown earth 
And by dreams of new moss silently creep- 
ing, 
By the hurrying hfe that would find birth 
In the woods, roused from their heavy sleep- 
ing, 
That I will be the wild Earth's friend 
Till the time has come to rest again. 
In her rich renewal, world without end, 
Yes, world without end. Amen! 



[231 



SUNSET 

The little, yellow, fluttering rays of light 

Are running home to rest. 
Where the sun broods Uke a great mother 
bird, 

Red in the low, red West. 

Broad bands of rose and gold flare up and 
out 
Across a cloud-filled sky, 
And stretch with feathery edge against the 
grey, 
Like great wings hfted high. 

And then are folded close the Httle lights. 
Then fall the wide, bright wings 

On a grey nest of clouds, where shadows 
hide 
Their mystic flutterings. 



[24] 



NEAR THE RIVERS 

Inland a little way are men and women, 

Tall firs upon the hillside, 

Rich wheat in golden fields; 

But beside the banks of little rivers 

Are children, and lilies. 



[25] 



SILVER WATERS 

Run, run, silver waters, 
Underneath the sycamores; 

Ah, what rush of fluent music 

Through the ample shadow pours! 

Leap, dance, silver waters. 
Over boulders brown and cool; 

Slip around the pebbly corner 
Quickly to the swimming pool! 

Run, run, silver waters. 
Till the open pool is won. 

Where our little laughing brothers 
Plunge and paddle in the sun! 



[26] 



''THE REALLY TRULY TWIRLY 
WHIRLY EEL'' 

This being no serious poem for scholarSy hut a 
jingle for all small hoys. 

The trout won't bite? 
Well, never mind, 
The eels will — 
They always do! 
The river is full 
Quite full of eels 
That twist and twirl 
About the piers. 
Just build a fire 
Here on the shore — 
They like the Hght— 
Then bait your line 
With eut-up-sucker. 
Or any old fish, 
And wait and see . . . 

Uncle Eel will see the light — 

Hey, wriggly, twisty, oh! 
He will smell the bait and bite — 

The twirly, whirly sport! 

[27] 



BLUESTONE , 



He will wriggle and twist like sin, 
Spatter and splash when you pull him in, 
Knot your line and writhe in his skin, 
Wriggly, twisty, oh! 

Now you^re sorry for Uncle Eel? 

Hey, wriggly, twisty, oh! 
Well, I know just how you feel 

For the twirly, whirly sport. 
For he wriggles his best, when all is said. 
He never stops when he loses his head. 
He keeps it up when you know he is dead. 

Wriggly, twisty, oh! 



[281 i 



BAREFOOT 

For all little girls. 

Oh, the fine dust is soft as down for my feet, 

And they feel how the warmth of the sum- 
mer is sweet 

On the broad yellow road, as they travel 
down 

The big, high hill to the httle, low town. 

But still they are dreaming of ways they 

know 
Through sluggish marshes where rushes 

grow; 
Of ways that are chilly and moist with 

shme. 
Where hard is the crossing or heavy the 

climb. 

And my feet remember the ways kept cool 
By the living spring and the waiting pool. 
Where weary they rested — a night — a day — 
While the frisky pollywogs wriggled at play. 

[29] 



BLUESTONE 

And my feet remember the stem, hard rock 
Of the hilly upland, the sudden shock 
Of its cold edge at night, and the burning pain 
Of its blistering heat when the day came 
again. 

Oh, more they remember — a thousand 

things — 
Fine feathers fallen from little gay wings. 
And the moss by the dew kept soft and 

clean. 
And the brush of the ferns, and the dark 

earth between; 

Prick of the thistle and thrust of the thorn 
Of the wild briar bushes, where quick they 

were torn. 
And the shifting of pine needles under their 

toes. 
And the bruises of pebbles where the wild 

brook flows. 

For they have been wounded with porcu- 
pine quills. 

And they have been washed where the 
spring freshet spills 

[30] 



BAREFOOT 

Her flood of rough laughter, and they have 

been gay 
Like the feet of the fawn, or the squirrel, 

all day. 

Oh, the fine dust is soft on the broad road 

down 
From the big, high hill to the little, low 

town — 
But my feet still remember, and long to go 
Up again, back, to the things they know. 



[31] 



BERRIES 

Which are the sweetest, raciest wild ber- 
ries 

That grow in all the world? Where can you 
find them? 

Do you think the mellow crimson straw- 
berries 

Dented with gold like shining drops of 
fire. 

Unquenched in the dewy meadows of New 
Brunswick 

Are best of all? 

Or do you like raspberries 

Like carmine embers where thorny bushes 
grow 

On the cleared hill above the beaver dam, 

Or blueberries in a high New England 
fallow, 

Smoky upon the scrub and warm to touch? 

Or would you have the evergreen black- 
berries 
Like little clustered spheres of jet, on vines 

[32] 



BERRIES 

Whose roots sink deep into moist Oregon 

soil 
To gather sugary wine? 

If you could choose, 
Which would you go the longest way to 

gather? 
Sometimes I think — but I can never decide! 



1331 



A THOUGHT WHEN NOON IS HOT 

Joy will cool my face, 

Joy will wash my hands, 

Into very joy I shall plunge my arms 

And sing; 
Joy will sweeten my mouth, 
Joy will gladden my throat, 
And freshen my very life, when I reach 

The spring. 



134] 



GREEN VALLEYS 

To you, green valleys, 

I am going home — 

You have given me a home 

Whose walls are bright air, 

Whose floor is the grass, 

Whose roof is white light 

Where the blue eaves of heaven hang bare. 

Dear green valleys, 
I shall go, for you have called 
With your three ancient voices 
That speak ten thousand strong; 
The voice of mating birds, 
The voice of moving waters. 
And the wind's inconstant song. 
You can not know my need 
Of the home you have given, 
At whose doors my spirit 
Never knocks in vain — • 
Oh, give me even the thorns 
And the thistles of your paths 
For my wise bare feet, 

[35] 



BLUESTONE 

And your cold and heat and pain — 
Oh, share your simple strength 
Of frost and fire and foam — 
Dear green valleys, 
When I go home. 

Give me your streams 

That I may breast the rapids, 

Fighting bravely up 

With the old, slow strain; 

Give me your hills. 

The wardens of your beauty. 

And your strong-guarding rocks 

That I may climb again; 

Give me your storms^ 

I would be buffeted and shaken 

That once more I may know 

The peace that conquers fear, 

And the long, grateful rest, 

And the silent hosannah 

That the hard-willed struggle brings near. 

But fill the wide rooms 
Of my home with fragrance — 
Down the unending corridors 
Blow the scent of noon; 

[36] 



GREEN VALLEYS 

Up the star-reaching stau-s 

Wliu-1 the scent of midnight; 

Dear green valleys, 

I shall go soon. 

And always I shall go, 

Always when you call me 

To the hearth unbounded 

And the rooms with fragrance filled. 

Till a quiet time comes 

When my will has forsaken 

All the dear deeds that I have willed. 

Then, when I shall need 
Airy ways no longer, 
When my feet can feel 
No thistle in the grass. 
Still let your ancient voices. 
No weaker and no stronger, 
Chant above my rest. 
Singing as they pass, 
For I shall be one, then, 
With frost and fire and foam. 

Dear green valleys, 
I shall be at home. 

[37] 



SONGS OF POVERTY 



DEBT 

Everywhere I go, in country or in town, 
Great clouds above me are weighing me 

down; 
The rain drops too heavily; too hard shines 

the sun; 
All the winds are sinister; the days one by 

one, 
GHde into long nights when I cannot rest; 
There is no more pleasure in the food on 

my plate; 
Stronger elbows jostle mine; meaner lips 

jest; 
And for all I want of life I can only wait. 
Deeper drives the bitterness, deeper every 

day— 
I, who would be giving, can not even pay. 



[41] 



TO-DAY 

I will walk as far as my strength will take 

me, 
Though I had nothing for breakfast to-day; 
I will go out where the eyes of strangers 
Ask me questions when they look my way; 

But I will not bend my neck to the pity of 

fools, 
I will not turn my face when Arrogance 

calls, 
Though I die of heat, though I die of hunger, 
Falling by the road as an old horse falls. 



[421 



TIRED 

Going on is a long, long walk; 
Hills — stones — heat — ^dust — 
My bundles pull hard upon my arm; 
How can I go on? But I must. 

My feet are heavy on the road; 

Up — down — up — down — 

They move hke a worn-out machine 

About to stop. But I must get to town. 

My shoulders are sagging; I am weak, 

Faint — sore — dull — slow — • 

It's a long, long walk to just around the 

bend 
When you are too tired to go. 



[43] 



PAWNBROKER 

Pawnbroker, pawnbroker, what will you 
lend me 
On my grandmother's locket with the 
old gold chain? 
(I wore it one night when my dear leaned 
to kiss me — 
We were walking home in the cool grey 
rain.) 

Pawnbroker, what will you lend me on my 
coat? 
It's fine cloth. (The weather is warmer 
to-day. 
It was cold when he gave me that coat on 
my birthday. 
Reckless because they had raised his pay.) 

Sign of the three golden balls, I am going; 
For now I have nothing. As others have 
died, 
Even so I can. I'll not be returning; 

For pawnbroker, what would you lend on 
my pride? 



[44] 



PASSING A FRIEND 

I thought I saw a friend to-day — 

The look of him was dear — 
But I shrank and turned my face away, 

Hurt by a sudden fear 
That he might turn and chance to see, 

As I went down the street, 
The sloven boots with crooked heels 

That shame my sorry feet. 



1451 



WORK 

Against my need of shelter and food 
I set my struggling flesh and blood 
And mind and heart, to make life give 
What I must have if I would live. 

I do not know from day to day 
Which side will win the next grim play, 
What marginal bit of praise or blame 
Will let me have — or lose — the game. 

You say the stakes are small, that I 
Am but one mortal, if I die. 
And that the odds are heavy. Still 
Against my need I set my will. 



[46] 



POVERTY 

This, then, is what the great have known — 

The reaching for a crust, 
The taking of the cast-off cloak. 

The breathing of the dust; 
This is the thing that saints have praised 

And prophets have endured, 
And this is what the Lord Christ blessed, 

Since it could not be cured. 

Ah, well, I am not saint enough 

To bless an ugly need. 
Nor can I share the glowing peace 

Of those of holy breed. 
But now that I have known this thing, 

I may have grace to find 
That common good the great have found,— 

The courage of mankind. 



[47] 



PREFERENCES 



PEOPLE 

To E. E. K. and E. K. S. 

Sometimes, when I am happy and at rest, 
I think, of all things, I like people best. 
Even the shallow, round-eyed gossips give 
A Uttle zest to life. So let them live! 
Just to be near my kind and hear them talk- 
ing 
Seems very good to me. Oh, dearer far 
The racket on the streets where men are 

walking 
Than all the prairie^s quiet spaces are. 

But when I think more keenly, I confess, 
There are a few that I like somewhat less 
Than others; those who smugly speak to me 
With minds elusive as crabs upon the rocks; 
"Who reach limp fingers out too languidly 
When they shake hands; whose kindness only 

mocks. 
I hope that they may prosper in some good 

way 
And find them friends according to their 

needs, 

[51] 



BLUESTONE 

Die, without doing much harm, some quiet 

day. 
And reach the heavens of their several 

creeds. 

But I like people who can make things grow, 
Whose hands are wise to move the quick- 
ened earth 
In Spring, so that the new vine-tendrils know 
An easier grace and a more confident mirth. 
I hke the makers of a thousand things, 
Of music, magic of words, or mighty wings 
That cut the winds as they go droning 

through 
The wondering deeps of the defiant blue. 
And always I can find out much of good 
In people who know how to handle food; 
I think there is some merit of heart or head 
In any person who can make good bread. 
And make it lovingly, and put away 
The golden-crusted loaves, as if to say, 
''It is no small matter to remake mankind 
Daily with flour, the body and the mind." 
I like firm health that never comes by 

chance, 
And a quick handshake, and a greeting meant, 
[621 



PEOPLE 

A sudden glint of hardness in the glance, 
And slow thought spoken out of strong con- 
tent. 
I like an athlete as I like a tree, 
And both are very beautiful to me. 
I like men with the manners of great kings 
In all the little worlds of common things — 
Shrewd, humorous men, still quick to kind- 
liness. 
With dreams they laugh at rather than ex- 
press; 
And busy women, ample and motherly, 
Guarding the little children they have borne, 
Making their homes houses of refuge, free 
To all who are unmothered and forlorn. 
Mellow old veterans to whom the years 
Have given wisdom, and young pioneers 
Who lay rough hands upon a living truth 
And hold it with the passion of their youth, 
And those who can be gay through middle- 
age. 
And every questioner, and every sage — 
All these have my respect; whole-heartedly 
I would give thanks for all their gifts to me. 
Since I have been poor and sick my words 
would bless 

153] 



BLUESTONE 

The sick and poor with every gentleness, 
And since I have known sadness very well, 
I care for the sorrowful more than I can tell. 
And I revere the flower-like, serene 
Spirits that bloom on hills where air is pure, 
Lonely and rare, with a long climb between 
Their world and the lower world that I 
endure. 

But dearest are the homes where children 

play, 
"Wliere men smoke quietly to end the day, 
Where women sew, and sing, and dream, 

and brood, 
Declaring, without speech, that life is good. 
Where with some homely ritual of dehght 
The year's high festivals are made more 

bright. 
Oh, when in such a simple home I rest, 
I think that I like simple people best. 



[641 



WEATHER 

Give me a land where the fog comes mani- 
fold and grey 

From over the black wash of the waves and 
the sheer white spray; 

For in a land where the fog lies my mother 
bore her child — 

Out of the blown wet veil of the fog first I 
wept and smiled. 

Give me a land where the fog comes, for 

when I burn with pain, 
As to a mother I would go home into the 

fog again; 
I would leave the garish fire of the sun and 

go where skies are blind, 
For cool to cover me is the fog, cool and 

very kind. 
Large as her love to hold and enfold me, 

quiet as death — or sleep — 
It may be that where the fog lies I can 

smile again — or weep. 



55] 



MUSIC 

To my mother. 

Oh, I have loved great rolling hills of sound, 
A mountainous music, rising in slow curves 
Of deep-toned and firm-moving melody 
In a crescendo like a rounding peak 
Near to the burning stars! 



156] 



FOOD 

The active body will be fed — 
Give me this day my daily bread! 

But, that my body may be strong, 
Brave and ruddy and fit for song, 

And that my spirit may bide in peace 
Nor ask too soon for her release, 

I^d have my food be fair and sound. 

The good, glad fruit of the healthy ground. 

Best I like figs in a deep, blue bowl. 
Piled high, with cream to cover the whole, 

Thick yellow cream on ripe figs chilled — 
The pitcher empty when the bowl is filled. 

Then, if any virtue be in food. 

Surely such blessedness will make life good! 



167] 



COLORS 

Violet and amber, these are my colors; 

Amethyst and topaz, these are my desu-e! 
I would wear gowns like darUng dusky 
shadows — 
Gowns that are glowing like candle-light or 
fire — 
I would look long on tumbled storm-clouds of 
summer — 
A sharp-darting Hghtning my spirit would 
be. 
Violet and amber, these are my colors; 
Amethyst and topaz are dearest to me! 



[58] 



TREES 

The apple tree is a dear tree 

And easy to climb; 
The elm gives a pleasant shade 

In the sunamer time; 
The maple will keep you dry 

Until the shower's end; 
The willow is gentle 

And the oak a stout friend. 
But though I live long and long,- 

Amen, so let it be! 
I shall dream of eucalyptus 

Growing over me, 
Tall and bare and beautiful 

Against a clear sky, 
Blue-gum and red-gum 

Reaching very high, 
Dark-crested in the sun 

And glad to throw away 
Wasting withered bark of self, 

Day after day; 
Daring to rise supreme, 

Line on lovely line — 
Other trees for others, 

[59] 



BLUESTONE 

But this tree is mine, 
Though I live long and long 
Even till I die. 

Tall and hare and beautiful 
Against a clear sky. 



[60] 



LOVE SONGS 



AN INCANTATION 

O strong sun of heaven, harm not my love! 
Sear him not with your flame, bhnd him not 

with yom* beauty, 
Shine for his pleasure. 

grey rains of heaven, harm not my love! 
Drown not in your torrent the song of his 

heart; 
Lave and caress him. 

O swift winds of heaven, harm not my love! 
Bruise not, nor buffet him with your rough 

humor; 
Sing you his prowess. 

O mighty triad, strong ones of heaven, 
Sun, rain and wind, be gentle, I charge you; 
For your mad mood of wrath, have me; I 

am ready; 
But spare him, my lover, most proud and 

most dear — 
O sun, rain and wind, strong ones of heaven! 

[63] 



A WALK IN SPRINGTIME 

J 
I 

Curly were the ferns j 

And cool was the brook, ' 

When my love and I i 

Went out to look; | 

But when we had seen \ 

We did not look again, l 

For love in our hearts ] 

Was beating like the rain. 

Little pearly flowers, j 

Pearly rose and blue, i 

Blossomed where we passed — \ 

We scarcely knew ! 

That the air was sweet, \ 

That the earth was kind, | 
For love in our hearts 

Was blowing like the wind. i 



164] 



A CHANT OF YOUTH 

To you, Beloved, I have lifted my face. 
As a flower, amorous of summer sunshine, 
To a revel of hght, a warmth, a wonder — ■ 
I rest in the glow of your presence. 

To you. Beloved, I cHng with frail hands, 
As a miser, clinging to heavy treasure; 
For you are my wealth, my world's whole 

treasure. 
My passion of rubies and pearls. 

To you. Beloved, my swift feet bear me, 
As a child, entering a wild, sweet garden; 
Your arms are all the garlands I have ever 

chosen — 
Your strength is my shapely tree. 

For to you. Beloved, I have listened long, 
And my ears remember a well-learned music. 
Your voice surging sweet through dusk 

into darkness. 
My strong, flooding stream of spring. 

[65] 



BLUESTONE 

And to you, Beloved, what shall I offer? 

Naught but my life — the moments un- 
counted — 

Thought, hope, and deed — a dream shared 
with no other — 

And my soul's little flame thrice-lighted by 
your love! 

Take then, the love that a woman would 
offer. 

For to you, Beloved, I have lifted my face! 



166) 



IN PASSING 

I have been washed in joy 
And dipped in glory; 
I have been clad with life, 
For me the world is new, 
For my dear, in passing. 
Has bent his face to greet me, 
Warm as the sun, 
Gay as the breeze, 
Gentle as dew. 



1671 



LET THERE BE LIGHT 1 

J 

Through the low window of my life | 

I looked, and saw you passing by, ^ 

As lovely as the hght! i 

To me you were the very dawn, ■ 

Or the dawn's echo of singing hues — j 

The flowers, ' 

Or the dawn's answer from the earth — 
Her ecstasy of green. i 

i 
In the dark chamber of my life \ 

I stood upright and looked; ; 

My lips were muted by my need, j 

And I was silent, but I heard 
That which was more than silence, i 

CalUng, ] 

''Let there be light for me ^ 

In the dark chamber of my life!" i 

Through the low window of my life 

I leaned; I saw you pause and turn — i 

Through the low window of my Ufe j 

You poured the shining sun! '] 

[68] i 



MORNING AND EVENING 

Sunlight and glory! 
Who is singing of glory f 

I am singing with heart as gay as the honey- 
suckle vine, 

I am singing for one whose words are good 
as ruddy apples — 

In the morning, in the evening, he is mine! 

I am singing for one whose voice has music 
of moving waters; 

Delicate ripple and terrible wave and thrill- 
ing current and tide 

All have tones that he uses well in talk and 
song and laughter. 

I am singing for love of a voice that was the 
joy of his bride. 

Star-glow and glory! 

Who is singing of glory f 

[69] 



BLUESTONE 

I am singing for one whose spirit is light to 

burn and shine, 
A heaven of sun or a skyf ul of stars is he for 

whom I am singing; 
In the evening, in the morning, he is mine! 



1701 ^ 

,1 



A SONG FOR MY MATE 

Higher than the sHm eucalyptus, 
Higher than the dim, purple mountains, 
Higher than the stern flight of eagles, 
Rose our young hopes, long, long ago. ■ 

Sweeter than wild, sweet berries. 
Sweeter than a chill spring's bounty, 
Sweeter than a meadowlark's carol. 
Were the young, sweet joys that we shared. 

More bitter than a sweUing olive, 
More bitter than a brackish river. 
More bitter than a crow's hard laughter, 
Were the sorrows we have known, my dear. 

But nearer than the light is to the day, 
And nearer than the night is to darkness, 
And nearer than the winds to their crooning, 
I am drawn, I am held to your heart. 



171] 



AT THE LAST 

When all our songs are shut within numb lips, 
And our joys are small stars denting the 

darkness, 
When tears have been shed hke dew upon 

our spirits 
And our hopes have grown weary climbing 

unknown summits, 
When our dreams have become red roads to 

achievement, 
Or drab byways to failure. 
And our mirth is remote as a mist of early 

morning 
Vanished in the noonday 
Across a level earth where sleep old com- 
rades, 
The good boon comrades of long ago, 
Then, dear, let us go to the forest, to the 

forest 
Where through the leaves, green mysteries 

recurrent. 
Lightly quivers day, no longer full-tinted, 
But toned to our mood . . . 

We shall rest there at last 
[72] 



AT THE LAST 

Where is a soft-moving, slow-moving murmur 
Carrying memories of Spring's clear rapture. 
We shall rest there at last as we have never 

rested. 
On the floor of the forest is peace. 



[781 



SONGS OF AN EMPTY HOUSE 



VISTA 

Before I die I may win grace 

To chant before the kings 
Who reign in wonderlands of song 

"Where every blossom sings; 
I may put on a golden gown 

And glow with sunny light, 
Carrying in my hair, the day, 

And in my eyes, the night. 

It may be men will honor me, 

The wistful ones and wise. 
Who know the ruth of victory. 

The joy of sacrifice; 
I may be rich; I may be gay; 

But all the crowns grow old — 
The laurel withers and the bay 

And dully rests the gold. 

Before I die I may break bread 
With many queens and kings — 

Oh, take the golden gown away, 
For there are deg,rer things! 

[77] 



BLUESTONE 



And I shall miss the love of babes 
With flesh of rose and pearl, 

The dewy eyes, the budded lips, 
A boy, a little girl. 



1781 



FOOD AND CLOTHING 

Yes, I live pleasantly and well, 

And dainty food I eat; 
The manna in the wilderness 

Was not more sweet. 
But I am starved for lack of pain. 

The ecstatic agony 
That gives the world the wren, the deer, 

And you, and me. 

White linen, very soft and clean, 

Enfolds me limb and breast; 
And all my days are happy tasks, 

My nights are rest. 
But I go cold for lack of pain. 

The ancient throes of birth 
That clothe a woman with hard power 

And peace, and mirth. 



179] 



CHILDLESS 

If I had borne children 

I would have made bread, 
I would have brought honey 

From the hive near my door; 
I would have aired hnen 

For table and bed 
And gone every day 

For my goods, to the store. 
I would have been rich 

With a dollar to spend. 
And I would have been gay 

With the laugh of a friend. 
And though I wore cotton. 

And worked all day, 
/ would have been proud 

When you looked my way! 

Bread I must eat. 

Though its taste be stale; 
Honey I can buy, 

Though I gather none. 
High, where the fresh winds 

Never, never fail, 
1801 



CHILDLESS 

The linen hangs white 

In the pleasant sun. 
And I go to market 

For needles and pins, 
To chat with my neighbors 

And learn of my sins— 
But the eyes of the mothers- 

What is it they say 
That I never shall know. 

When they look my wayf 



1811 



FOR THE CHILD THAT NEVER WAS 

little hands that never were 
With apple-petalled beauty made, 

You might have held me close to joy 
Whence I have strayed. 

O httle feet that never were 
Fashioned for tripping melody, 

Your gladness might have kept me brave 
On Calvary. 

O little lips that would have drawn 
White love to feed you, from my breast, 

You would have been my love, itself. 
Made manifest. 

O Child of mine — you never were — 
No throes have thrilled me to rejoice. 

You would have been my conquering soul, 
My singing voice. 



1821 



THE END 

My father got me strong and straight and 
slim, 
And I give thanks to him; 
My mother bore me glad and sound and 
sweet, 
I kiss her feet. 

But now, with me, their generation fails 

And nevermore avails 
To cast through me the ancient mould again, 

Such women and men. 

I have no son, whose life of flesh and fire 

Sprang from my splendid sire. 
No daughter for whose soul my mother^s flesh 

Wrought raiment fresh. 

Lifers venerable rhythms like a flood 

Beat in my brain and blood. 
Crying from all the generations past, 

^^s this the last?'' 

183] 



BLUESTONE 1 



And I make answer to my haughty dead, 
Who made me, heart and head, 

*'Even the sunbeams falter, flicker and bend; 
I am the end." 



[84] 



SONGS OF LAUGHTER AND TEARS 



A LONG SONG OF MOMUS, GOD OF 
LAUGHTER 

When creeks and ditches overflow 

In days of early spring, 
"When shrieking blue] ays tell their sins, 
And while the robins sing. 
When new calves nose me curiously, 
And tuHps dress them gaudily. 
And boys play marbles merrily, 
And girls play jacks, I laugh! 
I clothe young Mirth in rich array. 
And crown her queen of every day, 
I am refreshed and innocent. 
And merrily I laugh! 

When fat men slip on frosty walks 

And curse their clumsy feet; 
When mincing ladies scream at mice. 
While little children eat; 
When debtors meet with creditors. 
When folly wins and wisdom bores. 
While grandsir reads and granddam 
snores — 
With wicked glee I laugh. 

[871 



BLUESTONE 

I hold my sides to keep me in 
And stuff my mouth to hide my sin — 
They caxe not, who keep faith with me, 

How boisterously I laugh! j 

I 

When youth is young in lustihead ) 

And struts about too proud, i 

Or drinks too deep, or woos too late, " 

Or shouts his joy too loud; , 

When revels crowd the holy night ; 

With ribaldry and rough delight, 

When maids wear daggers tipped with 

spite, ! 

Ah, me, I needs must laugh. i 

For though I keep an aching heart \ 

And know the wounds that soon must I 

smart, | 

Tears never quench the thirst of 

youth — ' 
And wistfully I laugh. 

When churches fill with hypocrites i 

And schools breed happy fools; 1 

When lawyers would defy the law . 

And cavil at their rules; j 

When honest toil loves evil ease, ; 

[88] i 



ALONGSONGOFMOMUS 

When platforms promise policies, 
When those who should inspire, would 
please — 

At lunacy I laugh! 
I shake the air for cowards all, 
Who start to hear a petal fall; 

I roar with ridicule — ah, ha! 

And lustily I laugh. 

Or, when a hero braves the world 

For love of all mankind; 
(For that great end he sees and dares, 
Alas, they are too blind!) 

By every great thought he has known, 
By every shred of truth new-shown. 
He will be more and more alone — 

That he may hear, I laugh; 
And those who fain would tear his flesh 
But start me to a laughter fresh. 
At them I laugh, for him I laugh, 
And comradely I laugh. 

With frilly flowers and babes at play 

And honest lovers all; 
When good wives fill their steaming pans 

For homely festival; 

189] 



BLUESTONE \ 



When greybeards keep last holidays, 
When sunhght strikes through winter 

haze 
Into their sombre twilight ways, 

With wondrous hope I laugh. 
For all the best of life and death, 
The birth cry and the passing breath, 
With all the gods there are, I laugh. 

And happily I laugh. 



[90] 



AN ELEGY 

Comrade, they have closed your eyes 

And given you a gift of tears; 

They have spent their heavy sighs 

Where none hears. 

In your delicate fingers laying 

Chilly flowers cloudy white, 

Weeping, whispering, sighing, praying, 

They will watch with you to-night; 

And to-morrow they will take you 

Silent to her riven breast. 

Who was your triumphant mother, 

Who is their unfaiUng mother, 

To her broken bosom take you, 

There to rest. 

Kindly cool she will receive you, 
Comrade; they will go and leave you; 
They will weep again alone. 
Wearing crape in solemn duty. 
Who have never dreamed the beauty 
You have known. 
They will weep again together, 
Stain glad memory with their tears, 

191] 



BLUESTONE ] 

I 

Shut themselves away together \ 

For a tnne, and with the years, ' 
One by one they will forget you, 

Dear, whose spirits never met you. \ 

Comrade, they have called you young, j 

But your soul had travelled far 

Into youth and into age, 

Making greater pilgrimage j 

With the souls of sea and star, i 

With the songs the hills have sung, 

Than they make who call you young. 

They have said you went too soon, j 

Ere yoiu* glory was begun, I 

Sword unused and spurs not won, j 

You were morning without noon. j 

But you knew it was enough 

Just to be fine human stuff j 

And to fill yom* little space ' 

With dehcate grace. 

Therefore shall I feed my sorrow ^ 
With a steadfast, hollow gazing 

On eyes shut against to-morrow, i 

On the terrible, amazing \ 

Mystery of your folded fingers, | 

[92] 



AN ELEGY 

When my memory halts and lingers 
With your spirit's afterglow 
More than they could ever know? 

I will make me fresh and fair, 
Bind a flower in my hair, 
Go abroad to meet the dawn 
As you, too, have often gone. 
Making splendid festival, 
Comrade, where the petals fall 
That were blossoms yesterday; 
Where the buds put forth the green 
That your prescience had foreseen, 
I will sing my grief away 
Into joy because you were. 
With the flowers in my hair. 
And the fresh sun on the dew, 
I will sing this song for you, 
Dawn-exalted on the earth 
That gave you birth. 



193) 



GARMENTS 

Life has taken from us our garments of 
pleasure, 
Merry colors woven well we have laid 
aside; 
But we have put on again the old robe of 
courage, 
Wearing what our fathers wore even till 
they died. 

Lads wear it as the sky wears the flame of 
morning; 
Women wear it; like the dusk it folds their 
spirits in; 
And strong men wear it as the grim, gusty 
winter 
Wears a coat of icy mail in winds scream- 
ing thin. 

Life has taken away the quaint motley of 
the jester; 
Life has stolen pretty pearls and laces from 
the queen; 

[94] 



GARMENTS 

Life has torn the scholar's hood, the veils 
of the dreamer, 
And many a little cloak of joy that kept 
our beauty clean. 

But the old generations have given us their 
garment 
Of the harsh cloth and heavy that man has 
often worn; 
And we have put on again the old robe of 
courage, 
And this shall not be taken; and this shall 
not be torn! 



[96] 



IN A CERTAIN RESTAURANT 

These diners should have sat for old Franz 

Hals, 
For all their faces are as round as moons, 
Glowing with jovial warmth and creased with 

smiles 
At the turbulent clatter of many forks and 

spoons. 

There is no music and no cabaret — 
China and linen both are coarse and plain — 
But food there is, such stout and honest food 
As tells a body he has not dined in vain. 

Behind a bar three corpulent men in white 
Are opening oysters, one by one by one, 
Laying them delicately on beds of ice. 
Friendly and slow, as if they think it fun. 

Far back in the room there is a mighty grill 
Ruddy with fire, clouded with fragrant steam, 
Where ducks and chickens and other gentry 

turn 
Over and over as in a drowsy dream. 

[96] 



IN A CERTAIN RESTAURANT 

And through the air come speeding plates 

piled high 
With giant potatoes, opened, foamy white, 
Genial, impressive beefsteaks, lobsters pink 
As coral beads, and pastry crisp and Ught. 

This is the place of plenty I like best. 
I watch Manhattan burghers and their wives 
Eating tremendously, as all men should. 
To please their palates and to save their lives. 

No finicky fashion, no satiety. 
No smirking gesture, and no sour debate 
Trouble these diners. They are one with hfe, 
Now for a while, though inarticulate. 

Such excellent food demands much company 
Oh, to go out with friendly haste and find 
The hungriest hungry souls and dine them 

here — • 
It would he good to entertain mankind! 



197] 



GARDEN SONG 

I went into my garden at break of Delight, 
Before Joy had risen in the eastern sky, 
To see how many cucumbers had happened 
overnight. 
And how much higher stood the corn 
that yesterday was high. 

I went into my garden when Rest had fallen 
away 
From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys 
gold and green 
To see how far my beans had travelled up 
into the day. 
And whether all my lettuces were glad and 
cool and clean. 

I went into my garden when Mirth was 
laughing low 
Through the sharp-scented leaves of the 
lush tomato vines. 
Through the long, blue-grey leaves of the 
turnips in a row. 
Where early in the every-day the dew 
shakes and shines. 

198] 



GARDEN SONG 

Oh, Rest had fallen away from the valleys 
green and gold, 
From the tops of blue hills that were quiet 
all the night. 
But the big round Joy was rising busy and 
bold 
When I went into my garden at break of 
Dehght. 



1991 



A SONG FOR MOTHERS' DAY \ 

Mother, you gave me sun and stars, j 

Great hills, and rivers undefiled, i 

For, when you gave me life, you gave ] 

Love of their beauty to your child. I 

Without you I could not have known 
The Spring that makes the valleys green, 
The rustling of the wings of birds, 
Or clover fragrance kind and keen 

i 

Your travail gave me all my joys, i 

Laughter and talk and young delight ; 

And dreams that float like clouds in heaven i 

High, high above me, shy and white. ; 

For all these proud and lovely things \ 

Thanks are too small a thing to give — ! 
Mother, I thank you with my love, 
Who gave me this good life to live. 



[100] 



BIRTH 

This was the blessing of his draught of 

power, 
And this the sudden ripple of her hope, 
And the swift current of their great desire, 
The eddying wonder of their silent hours. 
The rising flood-tide of her agony. 
The billowing beauty of the infinite 
Borne in, a miracle upon the shallows 
Of their small, individual Hves. 

Yet is it but a little human babe, 
Given at last into his reaching arms 
And carried to the hollow of her breast! 



[1011 



TO MY COUNTRY 

Beams from your forests built my little 

home, 
And stones from your deep quarries flagged 

my hearth; 
Your streams have rippled swiftly in my 

blood, 
Your fertile acres made my flesh for me. 
And your clean-blowing winds have been 

my breath; 
The dreams you gave have been my dearest 

dreaming, 
And you have been the mother of my soul. 

Therefore, my country, take again at need 
Your excellent gifts, home, hearth, and flesh 

and blood. 
Young dreams and all the good I am or 

have. 
That all your later children may have peace 
In httle homes built of your wood and stone 
And warmed and lighted by the love of man! 



[102] 



SONGS OF SUN AND SHADOW 
I 

I saw a golden horseman 
Ride upward out of dawn, 

Upon a golden stallion 

On the trails of heaven gone; 

And I, who travelled slowly- 
Through drab and level days 

Looked upward out of sorrow 
In ecstasies of praise. 

I said, '^Lo, one is golden 
And rides beyond my soul 

And climbs the hills of heaven 
In fiery caracole!" 

I said, ''Lo, one has glory. 
The heavens' gallant guest ! " 

But he rides in dying splendor 

Through the far gates of the West! 

[1031 



BLUESTONE 



II 



My life is like a shadow, a shadow, a shadow, 
With soft grey feet that patter down 
A path of waning light; 
And where the shadow passes is only rustling 
laughter 
That rushes to the mighty dark 
Of the low-lying night. 

And all my days go dreaming, dreaming, 
dreaming 
Of the declining summer time 
And the descending sun, 
Beseeching him to waken — O fallen sleeper, 
waken! 
But he goes silently, who knows 
The laughing day is done. 



[104] 



SONGS OF SUN AND SHADOW 



III 

The shadows come and fold us in 

And hold us through the long night hours 
As the quiet arms of wedded love 

In an old silence sweet as flowers. 

These are they that guarded us 
Ere yet we knew the hving womb, 

And will come home for us again 
To the last candle-lighted room. 

Oh, greatly soothe and silence me, 

Oh, welcome me to gentle rest, 
Shadows, when I may leave my work 

And go to be your guest. 



[105] 



TIME-SHADOWS 

Time-Shadows perish; there is no lovely- 
shadow 

But must fade out in dull, inglorious dust. 

Deeds have no death. They were rooted in 
the Beginning; 

Up toward the topmost skies of Time they 
thrust 

Their branching beauty, living and ever- 
lasting, 

Or their poor ugUness, because they must. 

Dreams are undying. They are the rich sap 

moving 
In the tree of life to prosper lovely deeds; 
Upwelling out of the past they fill the 

branches 
And are the food whereon all beauty feeds; 
They are the zest of virtue in the blessed, 
The power in labors and the faith in creeds. 

We are Time-Shadows, surely, and we perish; 
These lips that drink, these lungs that love 
the air, 

[1061 



TIME-SHADOWS 

These hands that have the strength and 

skill to fashion 
Soon will be light enough for wind to bear. 
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow 
For water and air and earth they will not care. 

But these that we have known, the fluent 

dreaming 
And the hard doing, will live when we must 

die; 
Oh, may they flourish with immortal beauty 
Out of our lives, growing as Time goes by, 
Forever and forever and forever 
Thrusting new blossoms toward the topmost 

sky! 



[107] 



WHIMS FOR POETS 



THE WINDS 

The wind blew north, the wmd blew south, 
The wind blew cherries into my mouth, 
The wind blew a wild rose into my hair 
And a pin of gold to hold it there. 

The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 
The wind blew a dagger against my breast, 
And thorny boughs it blew in my way, 
And I was wounded, day after day. 

Now all the life of the world, I find, 
Is a whim of the winds, be it cruel or kind. 
Oh, meet them singing, as they rush forth. 
Blowing east and west, or south and north! 



[Ill] 



TO SEANCHAN 

(In "At the King's Threshold" 
by William Butler Yeats) 

We have been too humble, Seanchan, 
Humble as you were proud; 
We have left the royal table 
For the platters of the crowd ; 
And we eat what they have broken, 
And we drink what they will leave, 
But we hear when they have spoken 
And we suffer when they grieve. 



rii2i 



DUTY 

I should be working on a book 
To earn a thousand dollars, 

Or win a dim, respectful look 
From musty, dusty scholars; 

This duty has not troubled me 
All day; I have been singing 

In open meadows merrily, 
Near new brambles springing, 

Near field-sparrows nesting 

Where blackberry blossoms nod, 

And now — I am resting 
On the soft, green sod. 



1113] 



IF THEY WILL NOT HEAR ME 

If they will not hear me, shall I sing another 
song, 
Louder yet, or longer, or livelier, to-day? 
Shall I steal a passion that my music may 
be strong? 
Shall I steal a frolic that my music may 
be gay? 

Thrushes sing their own song over again 
and over; 
Larks sing their own song wherever they 
may fly; 
Robins sing their own song, hopping in the 
clover 
Of my cool, wet lawn. Are they braver 
than I? 



11141 



SONGS I SANG LONG AGO 

Songs I sang long ago 
I would forget; I do not know 
Why I sang shrilly, frailly, 
Crudely, harshly, poorly, palely. 
But the little song I sang last night 
Is the song of my deUght, 
Dearest of all the songs of men, 
And will be — till I sing again! 



[1151 



CALIFORNIA POEMS 



THE MOUNTAIN LILAC OF 
CALIFORNIA 

Near San Diego 

Upon the hills, 

Upon the little foothills, 

Out there, beyond the pungent sage of the 

mesa, 
A film of blue has shadowed the soft green 
That followed the rains of spring. 
And into the mountains 
Far beyond the foothills, 
A film of fine elusive blue is rising, 
Even as smoke might rise from spreading fires 
Long smouldering near the earth. 

The golden sun pitched camp upon the hills, 
After the long, grey rains had washed them 

clean; 
And where he touched it, and where his 

fingers wandered, 
The earth, grown hot with pride in his 

bright beauty, 
Gave back this smoke, 

[1191 



BLUESTONE ; 

Soon to be broken by the flaring flame | 

Of mimulus and tarweed. l 

Soon through this Hving haze, i 

This dear blue smoke, \ 

Will the sun-kindled summer break and i 

burn \ 

Upon the hills. i 



[120 



A NIGHT ON THE BEACH 
North Island 

Where beach-verbenas lay their Httle cold 
leaves 

Upon dry sand, and lift their sticky-sweet 
blossoms 

Pale purple in the dawn, and where the 
primrose, 

With healthy golden passion fights the tides 

For space in which to flaunt her echoed sun- 
light, 

There after hours upon the tossing water, 

Utterly weary, we lay down to rest. 

And there came near to us the blessed 
Night 

Who covered us with peace. And there we 
met 

The Morning, with all gladness in her eyea. 



[1211 



THESE FOR ME 

Tuberoses for fragrance, 

Orchids for mystery — 

Have them, if you care for them, 

But once again, before I die, 

These for me — 

The sharp scent of wild sage. 

Blossoming, fretted by bees. 

When Spring rolls clouds away 

From a southern mesa. 

And the rare sight of yucca 

Blooming stark and white in blue twilight 

On the banks of the Sacramento — 

For fragrance, for mystery, 

These for me. 



[1221 



THE FOG COMES IN AT NIGHT 

San Diego Harbor 

A little while ago the sky was clear, 
A wild blue wine for our young eyes to drink, 
A wine in which the stars, like jolly bubbles, 
Rose sparkling from the depths. And while 

we looked, 
A milky cloud flooded the splendid cup 
And hid the bubble stars, and made opaque 
That which our eyes were drinking, but our 

spirits 
Drank yet more deep of a wonder yet more 

dear! 



[123] 



TO THE SUMMER SUN 

COBONADO 

Great sun, why are you pitiless? 
All day your glance is hard and keen 
Upon the hills that once were green, 
Where Summer, sere and comfortless. 
Now lies brown-frocked against the sky 
And makes of them her resting place. 
Since she has drunk the valleys dry. 
You never turn away your face, 
And I, who love you, can not bear 
Your long, barbaric, searching look 
Down through the low cool flights of air — 
Your tirelessness I can not brook; 
For all my body aches with hght, 
And you have glutted me with sight, 
With flooding color made me bhnd 
To homely things more soft and kind, 
Till I have longed for clouds to roll 
Between you and my troubled soul — 
Oh, great Beloved, hide away 
That I may miss you, for a day! 

[124] 



THE PAGEANT 



THE PAGEANT 

Forever is a long road; Forever is a highway 
Whereon go marching through arching nights 

and days 
Proud Dreams with golden crowns fair upon 

their foreheads, 
Shining Dreams with haloes and bright 

Dreams with bays, 
And all along the flowered edge the little 

Dreams go dancing. 
Singing gay canticles of praise. 

Forever is a broad road where have met to- 
gether 

Brave Deeds in red robes and Deeds of 
golden fire. 

Grave Deeds in silver gowns, quaint Deeds in 
motley, 

Quiet Deeds in homely grey that only saints 
admire. 

Gentle Deeds that love the green raiment of 
the summer, 

Pure Deeds in very white without the chill of 
snow, 

[1271 



BLUESTONE 

Squalid Deeds in dull rags, pitiful and ugly, 
Down the broad highway they go. 

All the Dreams are living still, all the Deeds 

are working, — 
White man and yellow man and black man at 

last 
Will join hands and teach their feet how to 

walk together, 
Following slowly where their Dreams would 

have them follow fast, 
Where the Dreams with golden crowns, the 

shining Dreams with haloes. 
And the Dreams with bays have passed. 

All the Dreams will succor them, giving 
power and beauty. 

Fostering Deeds in red and grey. Deeds in 
gold and black, 

Helping Deeds in silver gowns to triumph in 
their going 

Down the everlasting road where is no turn- 
ing back. 

Speaking out of silences, shining out of 
shadows, 

[128] 



THE PAGEANT 

Telling what men never tell, showing what 

they are, 
Though they taste a bitter death, making 

them immortal, 
Dreams have gone out to travel far. 

Forever is a long road; Forever is a highway 
Whereon go marching through arching day 

and night, 
Old Dreams from long ago, carrying their 

lanterns, 
Young Dreams from yesterday, bearing rosy 

light. 
And little Dreams not yet come true, pulling 

wayside blossoms 
To twinkle in their hands, starry white. 



Printed in the United States of America 



[129] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



018 378 332 4 %J 



